Broken
by Shinoko
Summary: George pondered whether the Killing Curse could be used on oneself. He could ask, but then he'd be sent off to the psychiatric ward of St. Mungo's faster than one could say 'suicidal'. Dark fic, oneshot.


There were times when George wondered if the Killing Curse could be used on oneself. He wasn't about to ask anyone if it was possible, because who would he ask? Well, he could probably ask someone like Hermione the Walking Encyclopedia, because she knew everything. What she didn't know, she could probably find out faster than one could say 'library'. But if he asked Hermione, she would tell his mother, who would send him off to the psychiatric ward of St. Mungo's faster than one could say 'suicidal'.

The Healers were ridiculously easy to fool, though. All he had to do was put on a somewhat cheery face, tell them that he really believed that life was worth living, and they let him go after the bandages on his wrists could safely come off. Sometimes George really hated Charlie for hearing the sound of the mirror shattering and finding him so quickly.

Even after coming home, he wasn't allowed to be on his own anymore. There was always someone nearby. That normally wouldn't be unusual in a crowded place like the Burrow, but all he wanted to do was to be left alone, because he _was _alone. Fred was gone, and wasn't coming back. It wasn't like the time when they were five and did something that made their mother separate them for a week as punishment. Their separation then only lasted a day and a half before their mother realized that they weren't meant to be apart.

This was unbearable, though. It had been twenty-six days, four hours, and seventeen minutes since his twin was buried. He knew that no amount of begging and pleading would bring Fred back. If he wanted to see his twin again, he would have to take matters into his own hands. If Fred couldn't be with him in the living world, then why couldn't he join Fred in the afterlife? They were a team.

George took a swig of Firewhisky straight from the bottle, as was his usual practice until he was allowed to go back to the room he shared with Charlie. George wasn't allowed into his room without Charlie present. His older brother had moved back home after the battle to grieve and try to repair his broken family. George thought that if Charlie really wanted to help, he should have just left him lying in a pool of his own blood the night they buried Fred.

Nobody in his family said anything about George's drinking most of the time. Even his mother would only half-heartedly chide him when she bothered to at all. He knew that someone in his family was enabling him, as there was always Firewhisky in the liquor cabinet, which was never locked anymore. Even after he knew he'd taken the last bottle, there would always be more bottles the next day. Maybe it was Ron's way of apologizing for asking if he really thought that Fred would have wanted George to mope around. Perhaps George should give the Healers a bit of credit for returning Ron to normal so quickly, even if Ron did have a tendency to quack from time to time. George could really care less who it was that kept the cabinet full of Firewhisky.

He vaguely recalled one of his Muggleborn classmates having said something about how their father had died from some liver disease after a lifetime of heavy drinking. George vaguely wondered how much one would need to drink to contract such a disease, and if wizards could even die of a Muggle disease. He doubted that he would come down with 'Sir Otis of the liver' disease anytime soon, even if it was possible for a wizard to catch it. He'd never heard of it before his classmate mentioned it, and thought it to be a strange name for a disease. So he would just need to find some other way to join Fred.

That was why he wondered if the Killing Curse could be used on oneself. It seemed too easy, somehow, that two words could end a life. The thought had crossed his mind before, but never when he had the opportunity to test it. After he'd attempted suicide the night of Fred's funeral, his wand was usually kept with a designated watcher unless he was in the company of others. Charlie even kept George's wand under his pillow while they slept at night. Well, while Charlie slept. George didn't do much sleeping these days, as he couldn't stand the nightmares.

George took another swig of the Firewhisky before setting the bottle down on the small table next to his chair. He was fortunate enough to be in the company of others that night, so he actually had his wand for once. Of course, he wasn't alone, but that was easily remedied by stating he needed to use the restroom. As concerned as his family was about him, they mercifully left him to shower and use the loo in peace. He had few moments to himself otherwise. He supposed they were trying to make him feel as though he wasn't alone, but they didn't realize that he _was _alone.

The trip to the bathroom was the longest journey he'd ever made in his life. He resisted the temptation to say anything to anyone, lest someone figure out what he intended to do. He remembered that to use an Unforgivable Curse, one had to mean it. Well, if it would mean he would be with Fred again, then he meant it.

He would only have a couple of minutes before someone came up to check on him. That didn't mean he would make it easy. He could magically lock the door behind him, but that would be highly suspicious. Locking it the normal way would be far more sufficient. Besides, all he needed to do was chant two words -- six syllables -- and he would either join Fred, or become the newest patient at the psychiatric ward of St. Mungo's. He fooled the Healers once, he could do it again.

Locking the door behind him, he leaned against it as he tried to gather his bearings. He closed his eyes to avoid looking in the mirror over the sink. He did not need to see his reflection, as his eyes sometimes liked to deceive him into believing for a single cruel moment that Fred was looking back at him. Of course, Fred would never look like George did now. George's hair was shaggy and uncombed, there were dark circles under his eyes, and he hadn't shaved since the funeral. Not to mention Fred had both ears intact. George was nothing more than a broken shell compared to what Fred had been.

Taking in a deep breath, George peeled himself off the door. He could do this. For Fred, he would do this. He could theoretically use the rebound principal, casting the spell at the mirror and then having it rebound onto him. He'd rather not leave it to such unreliable measures, though. He took out his wand, aiming the tip at himself.

His heart raced as he opened his eyes. As much as he hated to see his reflection, at the same time he had to do it one last time. If there was to be any second thoughts, now was the time. If there was a single reason why he shouldn't join Fred in the afterlife, he needed to know before there was no turning back.

His reflection merely stared back at him, mirroring him perfectly. Every twitch of his facial muscles, the way a strand of hair fell down into his eyes, it was all him. His reflection would forevermore be just George, because Fred would never have the chance to stare back at him again. He took in another deep breath, parting his lips slightly in preparation.

Two words, six syllables. He supposed he could have left a note, but there was no point. Everyone already knew that where one of the Weasley twins went, the other followed.

He didn't have much time before someone would come looking for him. Already, he could hear soft voices downstairs, and the creak of the stairs as someone was undoubtedly sent to follow him. It was now or never.

He stared at his broken image as he held his wand with unsteady hands. Whether it was the Firewhisky or nerves didn't matter anymore. He would be with Fred again, because life couldn't be that cruel.

As the sound of footsteps became more pronounced, George tightened his grip on his wand. Taking a deep breath, he chanted, "_Avada kadavra_."


End file.
